Watching the sea in Spain prompted some thoughts about defences - in the sea, in me, in society. Plus, book recommendations and other things. Thanks for reading Red Lands. (There’s also some info at the end about plans for this newsletter, and how you can work with me)
At the edge of the town of Jávea in eastern Spain, where I was sitting last week, and where the land meets the sea, there are defences. First, a little way out to sea, there is the long concrete pier that shelters the harbour from the Mediterranean. It hosts a small lighthouse, fishermen, cormorants, gulls. The Mediterranean is not a wild sea, but the pier still works for its keep. Next, there is the line of tall palm trees standing sentinel along the promenade, keeping watch, providing shade, swaying and rustling to warn of wind and weather. Finally, there are the defences I’ve made myself, around me, and I am trying to dismantle them.
In the 1990s, I did a school project about the sea defences in my hometown of Sidmouth, in Devon, UK. They’d just been built - huge breakwaters and groynes made of rock imported from Denmark, angled so that the coast was protected from the south-westerly weather. They replaced the old wooden groynes which were installed in the 1820s, and along with a load of new shingle, were supposed to protect Sidmouth; the gateway town to the ancient Jurassic coast, bordered by striking red sandstone cliffs.
But over the years, easterly storms have battered the coast rather than just the expected south-westerly storms. Groynes and breakwaters have been less effective, shingle has moved along the beach, and the red sandstone cliffs are steadily falling into the sea. The defences weren’t enough. Now, the town is drawing up plans to update and extend them.
Meanwhile, the sea claims the cliffs and the land’s shape shifts. Each cliff fall, each beach drift, each storm, each encounter and confrontation leaves its imprint, changes the shape of things, no matter how much we build up our defences.
All sorts of things have changed my shape over the years, too - people, places, pain, joy, books - building it up, pulling it down, and where I used to shore up my defences for fear of people seeing what I really felt, or of offending others, or of rage, I am now playing with my defences and trying to see which ones I really need, if any. When the prevailing weather changes, like it did at the coast in Sidmouth, and like it has done in the course of my life so far, the defences we build aren’t always effective anyway. But I am beginning to think that’s ok - that prevailing forces may shape our edges, even pull bits down that weren’t real anyway, perhaps exposing our diamond-like cores which we were unaware of - a core that is not erodable, able to withstand any storm, waiting for us to find it and live.
The football World Cup is on. Football bores me, but its spirit and sometimes its language intrigues me. I overhear analysis of how teams ‘defend’ and ‘attack’. What are they defending against? Another team scoring a goal of course, which means they could lose. But life is not a zero sum game like football is. Your win is not my loss. Defend and attack is the language of war - yet we attack viruses, we battle climate change. Perhaps this is supposed to be motivating, but to me it speaks of zero sum games. Covid nil, humans one. But it is more complex than that. Climate change will bring people and disease-causing organisms closer together, and attacking existing and new organisms will become like a game of whack-a-mole. But battle is unsustainable and defences will become tired.
Sun Tzu, in The Art of War, says: “Standing on the defensive indicates insufficient strength; attacking, a superabundance of strength”. I have seen how attack and defence are often related to fear though, not strength - in animals, in people. Perhaps the prevailing storms are asking us not to defend or attack, but to find another way to see and protect what matters.
Of course, some things do need defending and protecting — like life when it is vulnerable in us, in each other, in the world. And some things need resisting, like greenwash, and lovelessness in all its forms. But what if we all let our defences down a bit? Me letting my politeness and self-doubt go, so that more of what’s real in me can come out. Us collectively letting our defensive language and processes go (like those I see in local politics), so that we can better see into the truth of things - like into the climate and nature crisis, which is asking us to do more than just ‘battle carbon emissions’ while we keep our way of life the same; or into social division, which is asking us to drop defences and step across divides rather than just shout slogans and click online campaigns.
The analogy is a wobbly one - I don’t want the red cliffs of my hometown to fall away, but I do want what’s not real in me, in us, to erode away. I will keep thinking about defences. The sea is ever-shifting, and we can catch a wave and ride it, explore it, really learn from it, or we can put up defences so that it stays out there, away from what we’ve made, whether that’s worth protecting or not.
Books, essays, and other things:
Book - Savage Gods by Paul Kingsnorth
This fairly short, unsettling, honest and poetic book lingers. Kingsnorth, an author, maps the breakdown of his faith in words and writing. He asks, can words ever paint the truth of the world - or are they part of the great lie that is killing it?
Book - Terra Viva by Vandana Shiva
Shiva is an Indian physicist, environmental activist, anti-globalisation author, regenerative farming champion, and has been described as “the most powerful voice” for people of the developing world. Her insightful memoir brings nuance and humanity to big issues through her blend of academia and rural knowledge, research and activism, head and heart.
TV series - The History of Now by Simon Schama (available on BBC iPlayer)
My husband and I are watching this. It’s a moving and motivating account of how art and creativity has shaped our world.
Finally, here’s a (long-ish) essay I wrote for Plough Magazine in the US - it’s about food, farming, community, Zambia, Devon, false narratives and a few other things.
A photo from a place I know
In Spain, my husband and I went for a walk on a headland that extends into the sea from the base of a mountain called Montgó. It’s a place I know well, my family and I used to come here when my sister and I were young, before my parents’ marriage broke down, dispersing other relationships in its wake. One of my favourite things is the smell of pine when it has been coaxed out by the sun. There was plenty of sun and pine on our walk, though the pine trees here are young because the area has had fires. Life has regenerated though. I find it hard to comprehend that there are seeds which are dependent on fire for their dispersal or germination. What a strategy. I often wonder how my family’s own relationships might regenerate, like pines after fire.
Thanks for reading my irregular musings and recommendations. I’d love to hear from you about anything here which prompts something in you, or recommendations for books, essays or other things you’d like to share.
Go well,
Elizabeth x
PS - I have a sort-of plan forming for this newsletter - it involves writing that links to a project I’m working on. I’ll also bring in some thinking from my coaching/outdoors work, in case it’s any use to you and your own projects. It’ll stay rooted in writing and books, possibilities and place. Stay tuned! And if you’re interested in working with me in some way - as a writer, a hill walking guide, a coach or facilitator - get in touch or see my website for more.
Dismantling defences
“The Hill-forts of Dorset” was once my school project.
Seemingly every commanding hill top, a place of fortified refuge.
Magnificent views to assess uncertain situations!